


Listen, listen, she's calling to you

by bhaer



Series: Socially Awkward and Sexually Repressed [1]
Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types, Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Bad Parenting, Bullying, Friendship, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Mary Poppins - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-07-17
Updated: 2013-07-17
Packaged: 2017-12-20 11:53:14
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,139
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/886953
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bhaer/pseuds/bhaer
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Four times Enjolras listens to Mary Poppins. That's it; that's the fic.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Listen, listen, she's calling to you

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Mad_Max](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mad_Max/gifts).



  
**1996**.

In some ways, he’s a precocious child; in other ways he’s painfully slow. Though only five years old he microwaves his dinner, eats it alone in the immense dining room, and then washes up after himself. Before going to bed he calls his best friend’s house, politely asks if Dennis can come to the phone, and they talk about nothing in particular until Combeferre’s mom makes him go to bed.

It is late, after all. He marches upstairs and changes into his favorite dinosaur pajamas, the ones with the brontosauri on them. He places his dirty clothes in the laundry hamper. In the too-bright bathroom he blinks at his startled reflection and brushes his teeth. Because he’s feeling a little angry, he does not floss.

There are some scattered toys on the bedroom floor: a stuffed doll with an eye missing, some war-torn toy soldiers, an unfinished puzzle of a ladybug. He dutifully cleans up. The puzzle goes in its box and then on top of the dresser. He strains to reach it. He is very small, after all. The toy soldiers are stuffed in the nearly bursting mahogany toy box and the doll is gingerly placed on the side of his bed.

He surveys his now clean room with pride. Content, he retrieves a battered VHS from his bookshelf and pushes it inside his shiny black television set. The TV buzzes to life and he presses play. The opening credits begin.

Already relaxed by the familiar soundtrack, he flicks off the lights and crawls into bed. There’s some negotiating as the pillow is covered by dozens of stuffed animals, all untouched and all an annoyance. He unceremoniously throws a few off before settling in amidst the thick blue bedclothes.

The first song begins, sung by a smiling Mrs. Banks. He thinks of his own mother, raising money for the African Rhinoceros. He hoped she earned a lot. She promised that if he were good he’d get a toy Rhinoceros. That would be nice.

Then Mr. Banks appears, dapper and formal with his suit and slick hair. He thinks of his father in Toronto, arguing about money and wills and court orders. He wonders if his father slicks his hair back for work. He doesn’t know; his father always leaves before he wakes up in the morning and comes home after he falls asleep.

He sees the children on the flickering screen, perfectly English and redheaded. The girl, Jane, reminds him pleasantly of his best friend’s sister. Sometimes he wishes he had a sister. Martha just cries a lot and demands to watch _Peter Rabbit_ when he wants to watch _Pokémon,_ but watching Jane Banks hold her brother’s hand protectively, he wonders if it might not be nice to have someone always there.

By the time Mary Poppins teaches the children how to snap, he’s nearly asleep. Before drifting unconscious, he thinks with annoyance that he won’t be up when his mother comes homes. He wanted to stay up.

**1998.**

Mrs. Enjolras attaches her diamond earrings in the front hall mirror, ignoring the high-pitched squeal echoing from the next room. 

“Mrs. Combeferre is coming over at dinnertime to check up on you. Are you going to behave like this for _her_?” Mrs. Enjolras calls. The squeals become steadily louder in retaliation.

She surveys her reflection in the mirror with a frown. Good, but not good enough. The wavering cry continues as she storms into the living room.

“You’re being a baby.” She feels immediately guilty snapping but the car will be there in ten minutes and she doesn’t want to driver to glimpse the chaos of her everyday life. Her son offers no response but to begin rocking back and forth on the floor. He’s doing it to spite her; she just knows it.

And like hell she, Claire Enjolras, first in her college class and head of the Westchester Ladies’ Association, was going to let this brat ruin her night out. With surprisingly muscled arms she lifts her son up onto the couch. His little body tenses at the touch but he stops crying. So he is an attention hog. Her therapist was right.

“It’s only one day and then I promise me, you and Daddy are going to do something fun.”

“ _Liar._ ” He seems to spit the worlds out with vitriol unnatural for a child.  

Maybe it _was_ a lie. She glances at her silver watch and stifles a sigh of frustration.

“I have ten minutes. Do you want to sit with me until then? We can watch a movie.” And just like that, the demon seems to melt away and reveal a perfect angel. His blue eyes water slightly as he slides down to grab his VHS. She groans. Again? No forty-three year old woman should know every word to that fucking chimney song.

But he’s only just calmed down so she watches as he slips the VHS into the player and self-importantly presses play and fast-forwards through the previews.

When the movie actually starts, there are only five minutes left. Still, she places an uneasy arm around her son’s frail frame. He leans into her body and she smells Johnson’s baby shampoo. She’s not much good at physical contact but he seems to appreciate her gestures.

When the doorbell rings, she can feel his little heart pound against her. It’s oddly difficult to break away and kiss him goodbye, leaving behind a smudge of red lipstick on his pale forehead. It looks a bit like blood and she leaves quickly so as not to have to look at it.

**2003.**

They trudge inside the empty house, backpacks slung over their shoulders and heads lowered grimly. Combeferre, newly tall and gangly, sports a split lip and a frown. The first stop is the kitchen where the bags are deposited and half a coconut cream pie is liberated from the fridge. Not bothering with plates, they grab only two forks and a gallon of milk. They are twelve and drinking from the carton is as close as they come to real rebellion.

Combeferre complains that he has to feed his turtle as they march upstairs. Enjolras wordlessly hands him the phone in his bedroom so Combeferre can call home and ask his mother to give Upton his pellets. Enjolras secretly wishes Upton would starve to death. He’s still nursing a cut on his ankle from the reptile.

Combeferre hangs up the phone grimly. So their parents had been called. The vice-principal wasn’t bluffing. The two boys share a silent look of dismay before dividing the pie between them on the bed.

“I’m supposed to go home soon,” Combeferre says with his mouth full. Enjolras’ heart sinks into his stomach.

“I thought you were going to stay for dinner.”

“My mom wants me home. She’s upset.”

No use saying what she was upset about, no use rehashing easily the worst day of school Enjolras could remember.

“It was self-defense,” Enjolras says stiffly as he licks his fork down.

“We still have detention. I think she mostly wants me home to make sure I’m okay.”

Enjolras imagines Mrs. Combeferre fussing over her son’s bloodied lip and pounding her first on the kitchen counter in frustration. Mr. Combeferre would smoke half a pack of cigarettes in the garden, pacing in circles. Even Martha might behave, perhaps offering her brother a chocolate candy.

“Can I come?”

Combeferre takes off his glasses and polishes them on the edge of his flannel shirt.

“Not this time, I don’t think.”

Enjolras tries not to show his disappointment; instead shoving a huge forkful of pie into his mouth. He doesn’t like how Combeferre looks at him with pity.

“Maybe you should call your parents,” Combeferre mutters.

“They don’t care,” Enjolras says calmly. He’s not angry; he’s stating facts. Combeferre still crumples his nose in sympathy and even lets Enjolras take the last bite of pie.

“Is my dad driving you to school tomorrow?”

“Yeah, I guess so,” Enjolras says.

“After school maybe we can go to the arcade.” Enjolras shrugs in response. Combeferre perseveres. 

“My mom’s making meatloaf tonight. Do you want me to save you some?”

Another shrug.

“Do you need help cleaning up?”

“Maria will get it,” Enjolras says dully. Combeferre doesn’t know what it’s like to have a maid to do your dishes; he just has a mother who keeps fresh sunflowers in the living room and a father who collects stray dogs. Maybe it’s a fair trade.

Enjolras walks Combeferre downstairs and helps him get his bike from the garage. They embrace briefly. They are beginning to understand that the familiar touches they shared as children are starting to gain a new connotation.

“I’ll call you tonight,” Combeferre says as he fastens his helmet.

“I’ll be here,” Enjolras says. He tries not to sound bitter.

He watches Combeferre ride off and wanders back inside, feeling lost. If he strains he can still feel the thud of a fist hitting his abdomen and he wonders dully if there’ll be a bruise. Probably. Not that it matters. The nurse gave him some painkillers and he doesn’t particularly care about marks.

His bedroom feels painfully empty. He throws the discarded plate on the floor. Who cares if it rots? Maybe he ought to do his homework. But why when his right answers will only earn him a punch and worst of all hurt Combeferre? Gentle, kind Combeferre who might have passed through middle school with only a few scratches but had to get mixed up with Enjolras. The guilt eats him up inside, mixing with the soreness in his stomach. The pills are in his backpack downstairs. It isn’t worth the trip.

There’s only one thing to do. It takes some digging through his closet to find the old VHS. He has a new TV, a shiny flat screen monstrosity. After some prying, he convinces it to accept the VHS player and eventually, the familiar music starts.

Enjolras slips out of his jeans, and climbs into bed. It isn’t yet four but he’s tired and angry and full and it doesn’t take long for him to fall asleep.

**2010.**

They haven’t set up the TV yet, or unwrapped the coffee pot. The hideous flowered sofa, donated by Mrs. Combeferre, sits untouched in the living room. Dinner was Chinese food and exhausted from carrying the boxes upstairs, they ate their spring rolls on the ground, too tired to look for plates. They take giant swigs out of the two-liter Pepsi in turn and when they’re finished, shove the remains in a black garbage bag. There’s a trash-bin somewhere amongst the boxes. Maybe they’ll find it tomorrow.

Combeferre goes to organize his bookshelf and Enjolras can smell sickly-sweet smoke drift from under the door. His own room is painfully messy. The double bed hasn’t been set up yet; both boys are terrible using tools and are waiting for Mr. Combeferre to trek to the city and help. Enjolras doesn’t mind. He flops down on his mattress and stares at the cracked ceiling.

Is this what adulthood feels like? Is it eating pork-fried rice on the floor and leaving the toilet seat up? Is it smoking weed in the peace of your own room without worrying about your dad storming in? Combeferre hasn’t had the privilege of such privacy before and has been excitedly testing the limits of his new freedom, leaving his bong unhidden on the kitchen counter and keeping his copy of _Tipping the Velvet_ on his bureau where anyone could thumb through it. 

It feels like home to Enjolras. When have his parents cared enough to enforce rules, to keep boundaries? The only difference here is that for the first time he has to do his own laundry. It’s a depressing thought.

The TV isn’t set up yet and Enjolras doesn’t feel like asking Combeferre for help with it. They’d probably just break it. Instead he finds his iPod at the bottom of his backpack and untangles his headphones from their perch on the dresser.

It takes some thumbing to find the song he wants; he doesn’t exactly advertise that he still listens to the soundtrack of a children’s musical and keeps it hidden under layers of playlists.

Finally the first comforting notes play and Enjolras feels the tension slide out of his back. He fishes a knit blanket from a cardboard box and throws it over himself. Outside the city lives on, loud and commanding. At home he can hear the crickets and cicadas at night. He supposes that isn’t home anymore.

Before falling asleep he hears (and smells) Combeferre stumble in and press his body weight against the mattress. Julie Andrews’ voice mixes with Combeferre’s tender alto pleasantly and Enjolras drowsily thinks that maybe moving was a good thing after all.

**Author's Note:**

> Title is from "Feed the Birds," from, you guessed it, Mary Poppins. 
> 
> Yes, Combeferre's pet turtle is named after Upton Sinclair. No wonder he got beat up in school.


End file.
